The world-famous email column

Issue #52 – “Lovin’ the Elevator” – September 13th, 2004

-You know who I think the ultimate wingman is? Grandma. Seriously, the next time you go to the bar, I think you should take your grandma. Think about it. Your grandma will go up to anyone and just start talking. No one will make an excuse and walk away from your grandma because that’d be rude. And who better to hype you up to a chick than your grandma – who literally believes you are the greatest person in the world? Plus, your grandma will give you money for drinks and you won’t even have to pay her back. But best of all, grandma is the best wingman because chances are she won’t try to make a booty call and bail on you in the middle of the night. I mean, all the guys she knows are asleep…or dead.

-When I’m taking the elevator down to the lobby with a bunch of buddies after pre-gaming and getting ready to go out for the night, I’m always amazed how chivalrous my friends are. We’re holding the door for girls, we’re making sure they all get out first, we’re being generally polite and friendly. Then we get to the bar and immediately forget all sense of tact and discretion as we get as drunk as possible and offend every woman within a twenty-foot radius while vainly attempting to take them home against their better judgment. I really believe that guys would be much better off if we never left the elevator.

-When it comes to getting inside an exclusive bar, guys suddenly lose all their abilities to estimate. You know when you call inside the club and the dude who is going to help get you in asks how many guys and girls you’re with? You quickly survey the eleven guys and one girl that is your crew and then say, “Um…it’s like two or three dudes and, uh, like six girls, six or seven girls.” Then you frantically try to start recruiting groups of stray chicks to join you. Of course when your friend comes outside to get you in, he’s not too happy with the total sausagefest you’ve produced. So your one girl friend gets in and totally leaves you all pathetically standing behind the velvet rope. Who’d have thought grandma would be such a dick?

-I’ll never forget that just before the final stage of the old school video game Marble Madness, the words “Everything You Know is Wrong” flashed on the screen. I remember those words every time someone asks me if I want to buy a bottle in a club. Because in the world of bottle-purchasing, everything you know is indeed very, very wrong. Let me explain: at some so-called hotspots in the city, the only way you can get in or, once you’re inside, actually sit down, is by buying a bottle of alcohol. The prices are, I’d say, a little out of whack. For instance, a bottle of Absolut (retail value: $35) costs $250 inside the club. Then you get to sit in a cramped booth while people you barely know stop by to make small talk and slyly make themselves a hearty drink then take off before the bill comes and you’re shamed into giving a 30% tip to the waitress who did nothing more than bring you a few straws and a carafe of lukewarm tonic. Again, much better off staying in the elevator.

-As the hour grows later and later and you and your friends grow drunker and drunker, you need to become increasingly vigilant about suggestions of which bar to go to next. Because I know that as soon as it passes 2am, I always start suggesting bars closer and closer to home. I’ll be like, “How about that lounge at 35th and Park? No? OK, what about that new place on 31st and Lex? No? OK, OK, how about that bar on 29th and 3rd? How about that, huh?” And my friends are like, “Karo, there’s no bar there. That’s your apartment.”

-I’m sorry, but wasted Saturday night plans must be confirmed. Ever run into a friend you haven’t seen in a while at the bar on a Saturday night and in between shots of tequila and your twentieth beer, you make plans to get lunch or something the following week? And then your friend gets mad at you for standing him up when you don’t show. I don’t think that’s fair. Standing someone up implies you knew you had plans and chose to ignore them. But having no recollection of meeting the person in the first place should absolve you of all wrongdoing.

-As always, here are some random things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-How come babies are never born in the afternoon? Every time I hear that someone had a kid, it’s always at like four in the morning. I mean, I was born at 8:10am and I haven’t gotten up that early since.

-In previous columns, I’ve written that I hate the questions, “How was your trip?” and “How was your test?” because you know the person you’re asking has told the story about fifty times already and could care less at this point. I’d like to add to that list “How was your flight?” That’s a great one isn’t it? The answer is always, “Actually, not too bad.” or “You won’t believe what happened…” and then they launch into some horror story. And what about this classic: “How was the funeral?” How the fuck is anyone supposed to answer that question? Ironically, though, the funeral usually goes better than the flight it took to get there.

-Never, ever tell your parents that you’re expecting to hear news of any kind. When you do that, you’re effectively giving them free reign to call you every twelve hours to ask if you’ve “heard anything.” That’s usually followed by them incessantly asking, “How come you haven’t heard anything yet?” Soon, they find it necessary to tell you they “thought you would have heard something by now.” And when you finally get the good news, you’re less excited about the news itself than the fact that your parents will finally stop asking you about it.

-Do you have friends that still have like five roommates? It’s amazing how the astronomical rent in the city will force grown people to live in basically the same conditions as they did in summer camp ten years earlier. Several times this year I’ve even met girls that not only share a room, but that share a bed as well. That’s so hot.

-And, finally, I flew to LA for some meetings last week and you won’t believe what happened. First, the cab driver that dropped me off at the airport took off with my luggage still in the trunk. It took me four hours and three missed flights but I finally managed to track him down, but only after he tried to get me to pay him to bring the bag back. Then on the flight, the guy next to me choked on a nut and the flight attendant had to give him the Heimlich maneuver. The expectorated cashew hit me square in the Saucony. Then my return flight got in to New York so early that we had to taxi on the runway until we were late instead. When I finally got off the plane and called home, my mom said, “Welcome back, honey. How was your flight? Have you heard anything?” Fuck me.